London, week two: On Mark Watson and Stalking

Monday 17^th – Sunday 23^rd September:

I am now settled into the typical routine of get up, make sandwiches, go to work, come home, make dinner, go to bed. Imaginative, I know. But there truly is very little time for anything else, particularly once housework enters into the equation. At work, however, two very exciting things have occurred: I have met a Catalan girl and I was invited to go to Mark Watson’s book launch.

Meeting the Catalan girl was quite accidental – binding books and posting things means spending a lot of time in the Hub (where the King Printer lives), and this is where we bumped into each other. I was terribly excited because this meant I could chat away to her and no one would have a clue what we were talking about, which is blatantly the real reason people learn a foreign language in the first place: to pretend one is a spy and talking in code. This girl is determined Catalunya will be independent within the next two years, so I look forward to seeing whether this is the case. I may leave pretending to be Ingrid Bergman in favour of taking up an Orwellian role... 

Wednesday brought the book launch of comedian Mark Watson. Even when you hear the words ‘book launch’, it is imbued with a sense of gravity, of suave sophistication, of grown-up-ness. Then you hear the name Mark Watson and know that this cannot possibly be the case. Gravity? Surely, as a comedian, there will be japes galore and as much gravity as an episode of QI. Plus, there was a wedding theme – everyone always ends up drunk and cavorting outrageously at weddings. So the reading was to take place in a wonderful little church, Mr Watson in the pulpit reading from his Gospel which was the story from the point of view of a wedding photographer. Blaspheming his way through the preliminaries and making all sorts of inappropriate jokes set the standard well. Especially when some confused Spanish tourists came into the church thinking it was an actual service or an actual wedding. Either way, they were late.

The views from the windows were...interesting. Looking out one way were trees and greenery – just the sort of scenery one would like for a wedding. On the opposite side, however, oh dear. Bright mustard and rhubarb coloured buildings clashed horribly with the serene nature on the other side. 

PR had done a remarkable job of securing a string quartet for the evening, I have to say. Classical melodies, mostly Mozart, reverberated in the cool church air. Wedding type pictures were taken (along with confetti) when the service was over and we trooped along the streets to the nearest Waterstone’s, where the reception was taking place complete with champagne, cheesy twizzles and peanuts (they’d booked a string quartet; they had to cut funds somewhere. And nobody cares about the food anymore because drinking takes precedence). Books were signed, many bottles of the good stuff were appreciated, and we all had a jolly nice time. Mark Watson was a lovely man and he didn’t even mind that we managed to set the alarm off because of all the Kindles on display.

The weekend rolled around and yesterday brought Tube problems, fancy cakes, and Farnborough. The Metropolitan line was having some work done so it took me an hour and a half to get to Trafalgar Square, when it should only take about 45 minutes, making me exceedingly cross because I wanted to be out in the sunshine and I also hate being late for anything. I’m one of those easily panicked people who have to arrive half an hour before the appointed time ‘just in case’. My new acquaintance took me down to Westminster and across the bridge to a splendid cake paradise. Shelves were festooned with pink meringues and penny sweets (well, they used to be penny sweets; probably pound sweets now), teapots and, at the very top, a doll’s house. A handsome waiter served us and I was so overwhelmed by the choices I had to ask him to choose for me. He picked a slice of Victoria sponge the size of a well-fed mountain goat and brought it over with a ridiculously elegant fork. The amount of cream overflowing from the sponge-cake would probably fill a small Edwardian bath so I only managed half of it. But I shall forever dream of French waiters and Victoria sponge, and when I die, probably of cake overdose, I will insist on my ghost returning to that cafe and sleeping inside the glass cabinet of delicious cakes, meringues, and muffins.

Unfortunately, Waterloo was calling. I was needed in Farnborough to enliven a town in which it is impossible to cross a road without almost dying and so when my friend picked me up from the station he gave me some casual stalking advice: “Always follow a hot blonde girl; the cars will definitely stop for her.”